


Like An Old Soldier

by dizzy



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzy/pseuds/dizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-ep for Death Knell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like An Old Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://lionessfreedom.livejournal.com/profile)[**lionessfreedom**](http://lionessfreedom.livejournal.com/) for the very last minute read-through. Any mistakes are definitely still my fault, as she is a flawless grammar/spelling Nazi and could kick my ass if she wanted to.

She's in Jack's shower. In Jack's bathroom. In Jack's house. The water pounds down onto her but she's still in a state of shock. Her fingers pass over the labels on bottles, strange things that would have no place in her own bathroom. Dark colors and masculine scents and pictures of things like pine trees. She opens one bottle and breathes it in, finding it shockingly familiar. Jack. This is what Jack smells like.

Not Jack. The Colonel. Her CO. Not Jack.

Except maybe right now, because damnit, she's just survived forty eight hours being chased by a super soldier bent on killing her and she's tired, and her head hurts, and maybe just right now she'll let herself think of him as Jack. After all, she is naked in his house - in his shower - and that alone means that this isn't just any old day.

She uses Jack's shampoo because she doesn't have anything of her own. She closes her eyes briefly and reinvents the bathroom in her mind, his bottles mixed with hers. Blue towels mingling with the brown ones that he has. Two toothbrushes in the holder. It sends a warmth through her that the scalding water from the shower has been unable to provide.

There's a knock on the door. "Carter? Still alive in there?"

She doesn't know how long it's been. "Yes… sir. Yes, sir."

She grabs his soap, a plain unscented bar, and lathers up her hands. She'd showered at the base but that was hours ago and she'd been in a hurry. She still feels like there is a layer of grime covering her and Jack's shampoo works better than the plain unscented bar of soap provided by Dr. Brightman.

Somehow she loses track of time again. "Carter? Two minutes or I'm coming in."

She lets the lather rinse away from her body, stinging as it passes the over the sodden bandage on her thigh. She's going to need to change that. She didn't think of it before she got in.

She turns off the water. "Sir?"

"Yeah?" The quickness of his response and the nearness of his voice let her know that he's still waiting just outside the door.

"I need to… the dressing, on my… leg." Her voice fades out toward the end. She's having trouble concentrating. Needs sleep. She slept on base, slept for too damn long, but she still feels exhausted.

"Oh. Right. I've, uh - bottom cabinet. Should be… you need help? I could…"

There's a pleasant shock to her system when she thinks of the two of them in his bathroom, her naked and his hands… "No, sir. I can do it myself."

She crouches awkwardly and opens the cabinet under the sink. There's a small pharmacy contained there, testament to all the battle wounds that he pretends are nothing during post-mission physicals.

There's antibiotic ointment and bandages just the right size, and tape to hold it on. She doesn't do as neat of a job as the base doctor had done, but it'll work. She towels off the rest of her body, scrubs the towel over her hair and then lets it drop to the floor.

She dresses in sweats and an Air Force t-shirt that he's loaned her. She's glad, unable to stand the thought of another minute in the hospital scrubs she'd worn out of the base.

"Carter?" he says again. "Gonna stay in there all day?"

"No, sir. I'm almost…" She stands in front of his mirror, her reflection surprising her. She looks silly in Jack's oversized clothes but it feels nice. She feels safe. She catches the neckline of his t-shirt between her fingers and raises it, smelling his detergent.

She lets it drop abruptly, feeling silly for the indulgence. She opens the bathroom door and finds him right there, yo-yo spinning up and down in a way that briefly mesmerizes her.

"Hey, good, you're… all clean now." He gives her a tight smile and jams the yo-yo back into his pocket. "Hungry?"

"Starving," she says, suddenly realizing that it's absolutely true.

She sits stiffly in one of the chairs in his kitchen.

"You don't have to wait around in here," Jack says. "Go get comfy on the couch."

"No… sir," she says quietly. "I'd rather stay here, sir."

"Whatever floats your boat. Turkey sandwich okay? I got, uh..." He looks through his cabinets. "Oh, soup! Soup's good. Right? Soup's for sick people… not that you're… " His hand does a sort of loop in the air as his voice trails off.

"I like soup, sir." She offers him a small smile.

"Soup and a sandwich, coming up. Café Jack style."

She watches him, unable to convince herself that she should not. He looks natural here puttering around in his own kitchen. He changed clothes while she was in the shower, too. He's in blue jeans and a black t-shirt with red flannel over it. His feet are bare, just like hers. She smiles and looks down at the table.

When she looks back up she catches him watching her. The soup has been poured into a bowl and stuck in the microwave and the makings of their sandwiches are laid out on the counter. She gives him another little smile and he tilts his head at her before turning his back again.

"So," he says when he puts the plate down in front of her. "Doing any better now?"

She bites into her sandwich. "It's delicious, sir, thank you."

"Not what I asked." He raises an eyebrow at her. "But thanks. I've been practicing my culinary skills just for such an occasion."

She rolls her eyes at him, which makes him grin.

"I'm okay."

He nods. "Sure ya are."

He's not patronizing, nor is he mocking and for right now that's enough for her. She just shrugs and digs in to the food. The soup is good - bland, but warm, and she does feel like her head is a little clearer once her stomach is full. "I should go home."

"You sure about that? Doc said you might do best with someone around to keep an eye on you. That someone…" He points to himself with his spoon and a bright red droplet splatters onto the table. "Me."

She doesn't really want to go home but feels better having made the offer out loud.

He sticks their dishes in the sink and holds his hand out to her. She puts her hand in his and lets him help her to her feet. She can stand by herself but there is an ache in her thigh that reminds her that she's allowed pain meds, at least for the next day or so. After that, they're back on active duty, and she'll need a clear head.

She digs into her pocket for the bottle, and swallows two tablets down with a gulp of water.

"Those the ones that make you loopy or the ones that knock you out?"

She looks at the bottle again. "Ones that knock me out."

"Okie-doke. I'm gonna go change the sheets in the guest room. You go get comfy."

"Sir-"

"That's an order, Major." He puts a hand on her shoulder. "If it makes you feel any better, you don't get to pick what we watch on tv. There's a Simpsons marathon starting in about ten minutes."

"Yes, sir." She sits up straighter and does a mocking little salute.

"There's my girl," he says, looking delighted for a split second and then abruptly, hilariously panicked. "Ah-"

"I know. Sir." She grins at him for real this time, crooked with a flash of teeth. She settles into a corner of his sofa while she listens to the sounds of him moving around down the hallway. The guest bedroom is downstairs. Jack sleeps upstairs. She's been in his bedroom, sat on the edge of his bed to shake him into wakefulness.

She shuts her eyes and indulges again in fantasy. She thinks down the road, to the future. In her mind there is no Pete, there are no regulations, no ranks, just her and Jack and this place. She imagines showering in that bathroom every morning, walking out wearing nothing but a towel and finding Jack still asleep in bed. Curling up next to him with her hair dampening the pillow and his body heat warming her. Running her hands over his chest until his eyes slowly open-

"Carter?"

She jumps and then, to her mortification, blushes.

Jack is standing over her, looking down with one eyebrow raised significantly. "Having a little nap?"

"Y-yes. Sir." She curls into herself a little bit more. "Sorry, sir."

"Ack, stop that," he says, holding up a hand. "No more sir, okay? Not tonight."

"Okay," she replies. There's a pause there where the word sir should go.

"Nuh-uh, you're still saying it up there." He taps her on the temple with one finger. "Repeat after me: okay, Jack."

"Okay… Jack," she says.

"Good job. You get a cookie," he says and then turns sharply and heads into the kitchen. He comes back with a bag of Oreos and tosses them to her.

"Thank you." She pulls one out of the bag and looks up at him before taking a bite. "Jack."

A funny look goes across his face as he plops down onto the sofa beside her. He fishes the remote out from between two cushions. The minutes passed in a blur of dopey cartoon voices and yellow figures that sort of all bleed together after a few minutes. Her eyes grow heavier and heavier and she's half asleep before the first episode is over.

She distantly hears him getting up and moving around but doesn't bother to investigate. She feels warmth settle over her - a blanket. She smiles and mumbles a thank you.

When she wakes back up, it's dark outside and the volume on the television has been turned down low. "Sir?" She sits up and the blanket falls off of her.

Jack raises a finger to his lips. "What did we say?"

"Jack." She grimaces. Saying it in her head is one thing. Saying it out loud is just… unnatural. "How long was I out?"

"'Bout an hour. Hey, you know what'd be good? A hot toddy. You up for that?"

She thinks of the medicine she's taken and how she probably shouldn't mix it with alcohol. Then she thinks to hell with it, because how often does she get the chance to have a drink alone with Jack O'Neill?

She stands, less wobbly than before. The pills are doing their trick. Her leg is just a distant throb now, and she can barely feel the other bruises and scrapes.

The drinks that he makes are warm, the brandy more noticeable than anything else. They sit on the couch again, closer this time. "Delicious," she says, practically moaning over it. "This is amazing."

"I try," he says, with an overconfident swagger. "So, Carter."

"Yes?" She smiles at him, taking another long sip and then resting her head against the back of the couch.

"You okay?"

That automatic affirmation instinct kicks in but she fights it this time. She speaks very quietly and doesn't meet his eyes. "I'm tired and I hurt."

He nods, and doesn't ask her to explain any more. "You're gonna be okay."

She nods. "Yes."

Sir.

His eyebrow goes up again, silently chastising.

She looks down into her cup and grins.

*

She can't sleep.

The sheets are crisp and cool. The room smells slightly dusty, like it hasn't been used very often. It's quiet and peaceful and the moonlight coming in through the window is almost magical.

She's bone tired. The little buzz from her drink has worn off. The painkillers are slowing everything down, making her feel like she's slogging through mud inside of her own head, but she still can't sleep.

She's not having flashbacks. Not exactly. Those will come later, mixed in with surreal dreams and banished with sleeping pills that allow her enough reprieve to function. This is different. This is the inability to close her eyes without feeling like she's falling into an abyss.

She gets up and turns the light on.

That's better.

She sits on the edge of the bed and puts one hand on her uninjured thigh, the other on the bed with her fingers gripping the edge of the mattress.

That's no good, either. She feels almost frantic with the need to get up and move. She goes into the bathroom and stares at her reflection in the mirror. Pale skin, yellow hair, dark circles under the eyes. She feels herself tearing up and turns so that she can't see herself.

Why this? Why now? She's never broken down before.

She leaves the light on when she walks out of the bathroom. She goes down the hall, walking slowly and carefully so she won't make any boards creak.

His bedroom door is open.

She stands there for a few seconds. She thinks it's a few seconds, at least. Maybe it's longer. Maybe whole minutes pass by.

He's sleeping on his stomach, something he never does off-world. His mouth is open a little and he's breathing deeply. Steady in, steady out. Really and truly asleep, not his alert dozing that she's familiar with.

She feels like she's walking in someone else's body as she makes her way over to his bed.

He won't turn her away.

She's almost sure. Almost.

He wakes up when she sits on the bed. Still a light sleeper, then, even here in his own home.

"Carter?"

"Sir," she says quietly. She wants to ask who else it could be but sarcasm isn't quite within her grasp right now.

"Ah." He sits up, rubbing a hand across his mouth. "What'cha doing? In here?"

Suddenly she's less sure. "I don't know," she says, her hands folding together on her lap. "I couldn't sleep."

"Ah," he says again. "Want some water? A nightlight? Bedtime story?"

She flushes. He can't see it, surely he can't, not with it so dark out - but he reacts as if he can, a hand on her shoulder. That just embarrasses her further and she starts to move away but his hand tightens.

"I'm so tired, sir," she says, and even to her own ears, she sounds like a petulant child. "I'm so tired and I can't sleep."

His hand moves up to cup her neck, gently urging her to turn toward him. "Carter," he says, his voice revealing more in the shadows than it ever does in the light of day. "What'd you come in here for?"

"I don't know."

He doesn't say anything for a few minutes after that.

"Lay down," he says, with a sigh, as if she's burdening him somehow.

(Only she isn't, not really, but he has to pretend that he doesn't like this and she has to pretend she doesn't know he likes it otherwise it becomes something they have to deal with later.)

Right now, in this moment, she's just desperate enough and just certain enough that _he_ can make her feel better that she stays. She curls up on the bed, facing away from him. He remains sitting up and his hand rubs across her shoulder and down over her back. "Now sleep."

She does.


End file.
